“Why did you and your ex break up?” There’s a laundry list of things I want to ask her. Things I want to know about more intimately instead of from a sideline view.
“Off limits,” she fires back hastily.
“Make the shot if you don’t wanna answer.” My brows raise, tone and attitude a mirror to hers. “What happened?”
He wasn’t you, I hope she says, but that’s a foolish thought. For her I’d be a fool, I think.
None of the guys know. It’s the one thing even Elliot has been tight-lipped about. Which is probably because none of us liked him, and we always made it apparent.
“He wasn’t the one,” Sutton says simply. “Your shot again.”
I earn an M after another three rounds. Sutton earns her next letter on the following shot.
The question I want to ask her isn’t the one that comes out of my mouth. Hooked on her last answer, curiosity has been skating circles in my mind. Who is the one? What does he have that I don’t? Am I never going to be good enough to be like my dadandthe person she wants?
Winded, the heavy rise and fall of my chest masks the thumping of my heart against my ribcage. Grip tight on my stick, it might slip if I don’t fight to keep my hand steady.
“Define the one. What characteristics are you searching for?” To add to the pain, or throw her off my scent, I add, “What is it about Zach that you are attracted to?”
“That’s two questions.” Sutton rubs at her knee. “Don’t judge me, but I want someone fun. I want to laugh so hard my mouth hurts from smiling. Intentional and observant. Someone that knows me well; they notice the unspoken and unseen. I want him to love me to his fullest—eventually, doesn’t have to be right away. A deep, all-consuming love that lives in the life we build with each other. Quiet, loud, and everything in between. I wantour love to be tangible.” Her brows push together. “What about you?”
How do I describe her?
If you were to look up my type in the Cooper Carmichael dictionary, it would be a picture of Sutton Elizabeth Davis. Probably my favorite picture of her taped in there. The dictionary a disguised scrapbook of memories.
She’s my type. My only type—there’s a reason I’ve never hooked up with a redhead or another female hockey player. It’s why I swore off relationships. They’d never be her, and that’s unfair to them.
“Smoking hot. Smart. Strong.” Easier, safer words. “Like me.”
She huffs in disgust. “You are such a playboy. Tell me.” Sutton skates into position for her next shot. “When did you last get your helmet sized?”
“Start of the season, why?”
“I think your ego is getting too big, it’s killing brain cells.”
“Haven’t you heard? Bigger the ego, bigger theeeeeee…” I drag out the word, skating in her direction. I whip around her, beady hazel eyes tracking me, mouth pursed but cheeks pink. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Davis. Bigger the heart.”
She digs her elbow into my gut.
I don’t skate away, forcing her to take her shot with me hovering behind her. She smells good. Fruity. Cherries? Or a berry of sort. Maybe both.
Sutton misses. Rolling her eyes at me, she skates behind me. “Only fair.”
“Yeah, only fair.” I wind up, every muscle in my body is relaxed for a beat, rippling with momentum and precision. The space between the toe and heel connecting with the puck. It soars to the back of the net, and I bite my bottom lip to refrain from gloating.
I can hear the smoke exhaling from her nose.
I snicker to myself before asking my next question. “What qualities do you admire about yourself?”
“That has nothing to do with dating.”
“It does. I think you are intelligent—your mind is creative yet analytical, a sponge. You are relentlessly compassionate to others. Helpful and patient. Your hair has a wild spirit that I think is an external expression of who you are inside. Meave might be the wild child, but you are in your own captivating and magnetic way.”
“Cooper—” Her tone is a warning.
“Make me stop. Tell me.” I stare down at her.
Sutton scrunches her nose, thinking. “I admire…I admire my drive. When I know what I want, I go after it. Even though I’m not confident in dating, I’d like to say I’m a confident person.” I nod, encouraging her. “My style.” She pauses, and I know there’s more in there she’s not saying. “Oh. My flexibility.”
